Golden Evening
by v1dya
Summary: Rewrite of Golden Afternoon. Someone wakes up not feeling quite like himself. Meanwhile, experts gradually become concerned over the increasingly erratic behavior of the world's most powerful hero...
1. Chapter 1

**Worm belongs to Wildbow. As for this plot, it is based on, though distinct from, my previous fic, Golden Afternoon. I recall one person commented that the choice of the protagonist there seemed rather arbitrary. That was true enough, though if I ever finish Golden Afternoon, it will probably involve some further crossovers from the other universe. In the meantime, I created this fic to try and write the same concept, but more appropriately paced, and based solely in the Worm Universe. Also, thanks Moka-girl (****u/2097368)**** for suggesting this and providing feedback on my ideas for it.**

* * *

><p>I see everything and nothing at once, a torrent of unnameable colors, impossible scenes. I cannot tell if I was moving, couldn't remember what it meant to move, couldn't remember anything prior to this sensory overload. Time, inasmuch as it seems to be passing does nothing to make some of the visions more comprehensible, but I begin to be able to sort them, to put those which I can pry some meaning from in the 'forefront' of my 'vision'.<p>

I fixate on my own form's trajectory in time, but this proves no more revealing. A golden figure, flying without direction, ambling through a small planetoid. Its (my?) aim was to _do good_, _to help people_. Multiple, conflicting definitions of these terms bubble forth, with a slew of memories. A biped, striking at me ineffectually, yelling, babbling. I fixate on some of the words. Are they memories, or visions dredged directly from the past? I cannot remember why I should make a distinction.

Should I continue the task I have apparently been doing? I receive an answer, though it seems meaningless. Part of me seems surprised by this, but another accepts it as par for the course.

* * *

><p>The small quadruped expresses no signs of gratitude upon return to its larger, two-legged companion. The latter does, and expresses it verbally, even as the former scrapes at its skin with its claws. I recall seeking to accomplish such things, yet even then, it was unsatisfying, means to an end now lost.<p>

* * *

><p>A collection of creatures, mostly bipedal and mostly imbued with a certain something<em> - <em>an arresting quality, drawing me in and informing me of things which shouldn't have been able to know, gather in in a complex. One, a _female_ in a _suit_, advances towards a still, horizontal, figure, directed by her _shard._ I comprehend these technical terms without remembering how I learned them.

The female separates the _unconscious _figure's head from it's body. The figure, which was a _male,_ sprays red fluid indiscriminately. None of the spectators seem affected by this spectacle, except for one, with a shard - the word _transposition_ suggests itself - that appears to be collapsing. None of its futures - many of the visions fall into place now, identifiable as such, show its survival.

The female's shard has functioned perfectly, though neither she nor anyone else present appears to realize this. Instead, they return to their work. They have been at for years, and will continue in a high proportion of futures. The subdued biped's head separates and reattaches as my sight cycles through time. Something about its form draws me, just as most of the crowd's shards inspire revulsion, and the female in the suit's shard calls forth a sense of bemusement.

* * *

><p>I enter another world, part of same, cordoned-off subset.<p>

The female's shard is in the process of attaching. _Untempered_, it will break her; futures of her drooling, insensate, and exerting its power present themselves. She will drag whatever she can into her thrall, reveling in their enslavement, their suffering. Multiple impulses, some more closely resembling base instinct than anything else, motivate a move to avert this. The procedure is accomplished subconsciously, as if it is second nature to me. Now the shard is restricted, limited in power but also in danger.

Another impulse, from a place distinct from where the shard knowledge came, urges me forward. I travel fully into that reality, now physically adjacent to the subject.

A flash of light releases the newly-ensharded biped from her confinement, simultaneously removing the inactive biological matter caking her. Her speech patterns correlate only weakly to those of the language she speaks. Of the quickly growing crowd of observers, only one other has a shard, and it is firmly established. I can sense my business here is concluded.

* * *

><p>Two shards, both unrestricted, both reeking of something unnatural. One is borne by the other. They are both <em>humans<em>, the _primates_ which dominate this planet, but while one has and will be accepted as such by his peers, the other will experience this only rarely, due to external, shard-driven alteration.

His form, like my own, is metallic. But mine inspires awe amongst the locals, while his is misshapen to their eyes, not repulsive, but an eyesore. A symbol is _tattooed_ on him, arousing my curiosity.

My descent upon the scene triggers a response from virtually all nearby sentients. The only exceptions are several juveniles, not sufficiently mature to process their surroundings, as well as the metalloid shardbearer, who has been subdued.

The other shardbearer tries to flee, a rift between universes forming adjacent to him. I abolish it easily, and reach towards him, restraining him briefly. This is enough, as locals rush to the location, turning on my target for no reason other than my own apparent hostility towards him. The metalic biped is now cognizant of my presence. He cannot remember his own name, but does know mine.

Something about his position is familiar.

* * *

><p>The male and the female exchange words, most of which are meant to convey hostility. The female, unlike her companion, has a shard, untempered and mildly repulsive. It is already acting on the male; there are few futures in which he will survive. My distaste for the shardbearer gives me additional motivation to move; I counteract its effects, an act which is second nature to me by now. I take an odd pleasure in capturing her, powerless, and I do not see, but <em>imagine <em>the act of crushing her, of separating that cursed shard from her...

The sensation is odd, appealing to a certain part of me and yet not consistent with my previous actions. I decide that, at the very least, this is not the place to reevaluate my plans. I release her, and depart, knowing both are too shocked to continue their skirmish.

Why am doing this? Again, I receive an incomprehensible reply. It feels less natural this time.


	2. Chapter 2

They aren't really my memories; at least, I don't think so. I don't feel the same motivation, the same driving force. My old self was seeking something, and helping humans (but am I not a human?) for _something_. It isn't something I can relate to. Humans, regardless of their shards, simultaneously interest and repulse me.

I visit countless settlements, receiving adulations for my acts. I descend into one, with a somewhat higher density of shards. I find I can comprehend the glyphs which are ubiquitous throughout the city.

_Brockton Bay_.

It is of no particular significance. I nevertheless direct light towards the rubble of a building, extracting still-intact humans from the rubble. Some of their companions are nearby, and my light deposits those I have rescued in front of the appropriate people. Not for the first time, I feel a general sense of unnaturalness about my abilities. What I have done seems to contradict my notions of what ought to be possible, even if it is nothing that hasn't transpired countless times over, according to my memories.

One of those gathered calls out for her offspring, asking no one in particular as to his location. The question reverberates in my mind, and I find an answer. I plunge through the rubble, finding the woman's child, which has ceased biological activity.

I ask another question. No, I learn, this one cannot be saved.

But that is peculiar. It is within my power to construct any part of these creatures I wish; indeed, it is how my present form came into existence. Then... surely...

I feel my outer form reshaping, shifting to an exact copy the juvenile. The replication is too precise, at first; the form, though just as alive as my previous, golden body, is too disfigured to satisfy the mother. Some modifications result in a future with minimize screams of horror. An indeterminate amount of time passes, until teams of humans find me. The mother's probability of self-termination decreases significantly.

* * *

><p>In this form, the vast majority of sapients ignore me. One, the mother of the juvenile I am impersonating, pays an inordinate amount of attention, as do a few others. Most of them are <em>employed<em> in a building with the words _Winslow High School_ carved into its front. At certain points in the planetary cycle, I am brought here by my 'parent'. I sit amongst other juveniles, all of whom deviate somewhat from ordinary humans, though only in their behavior. At other times, I am kept in a small domicile. In either place, I am not expected to do anything at all; instead, others bring me (utterly unnecessary) nutrients and other items that humans value. This routine continues over the course of weeks.

I can, and do, escape frequently, flying the skies in my golden form. This activity proves less and less satisfying to me, however, compared to the mindless peace at the place I have begun to think of as home. The mother has seen my transformation, observed it while thinking herself hidden, yet she has not shared this information with anyone else.

Curious. My powers seem to warn against being seen shifting between one form and the other, yet there seemed to be minimal consequences for this. It occurs to me that they might not, in fact, be perfectly reliable.

* * *

><p>Conflict between two shards. It draws my attention, though less than it once did, especially since it is taking place within the walls of Winslow. I have been dimly aware of both participants, over the course of the past few weeks; their shards draw my attention to some degree regardless of my mindset. One shardbearer, moving in concert with several shardless, deposit liquid onto another, trapped shardbearer. They derive some satisfaction from this act, after which they march out of the room, which, like some others, is restricted on the basis of gender.<p>

As she departs, one of the shardbearers looks at me, and asks me a question. My powers process the true meaning behind it, showing that she is not, in fact, asking about a reproductive event which I am observing.

"You," I answer. I would have replied more fully, told her that I was looking at the other shardbearer too, but my powers veto this idea.

"Well keep your eyes to yourself, retard," she replies. Another of her companions makes a remark, saying that I am, in fact, a retard, though oddly, the intent of her statement is in opposition to that of the shardbearer, whom she addresses as 'Sophia'. The group departs shortly after. I ignore them, as the path of a certain water molecule nearby grabs my attention. Though not remarkable in and of itself, within a few years it has a high probability of -

I hear another question, echoing within the bathroom, from the other shardbearer. Again, my power tells me that she is not looking for copulation advice. I answer again.

"Fight," the words come out, with the aid of my power. They reach the female through the walls, causing her shock and consternation. She emerges, seeing me nearby. Nearby humans avoid the hallway, due to my influence. I sense their presence will prevent my answering.

She narrows her eyes, unsure what to make of me. "Did you say -" she begins.

"Yes."

She still has more moisture on her skin than a typical human. This, my power tells me, causes her distress. The liquid evaporates at my will, quickly and nearly undetected; after all, only in the guise of Scion, after all, do I need to produce light to display my powers. She picks up on this rather quickly, checking her belongings in astonishment. They have not been dried, but returned to their previous, intact state. I answer her next question before she asks it.

"Fight," I repeat, "Administrate." It was odd that her shard, which had an intrinsic _administrative _quality to it, should not have lent hear any talent in that field amongst her own kind. But there were some, smaller organisms nearby, which responded to her ability.

She stares, and my abilities told me she had understood that my second word referred to the effects of her shard. "If I fight them, it's over for me. It'd feel good, sure, but.."

I have no idea how to respond to that, but my power does.

"Not them. Others," I start. New words insinuate themselves in my mind, by a mechanism distinct from my powers. Some of my memories, the incident which apparently triggered my previous lifestyle. "Do good. Help People."

She gives me another look, but her expression is changing. It was similar to that of my 'mother,' as she finished processing the 'fact' that her son was alive and started to observe me more closely.

"I understand," she says. Her tone has shifted somewhat. She speaks more slowly and clearly, now. "I'm Taylor, by the way. Are you lost?"

"Yes," I reply. It is technically the truth.

* * *

><p>It is the most populated city on this landmass, yet its shard count is lower than I expect. Its human count is lower too, as a girl with a shard has taken it upon herself to alter it by consuming several nearby civilians. My light bombards her as I descend, removing them from her stomach. They are mostly intact, which surprises me.<p>

She emits a large roar, not at all what would be expected from her physical form, at least, the top half. Rushing forward, one of her lower mouths opens wide. Her companions, all with unrestricted shards, are paralyzed with horror. My powers sense no danger, however, and I am enveloped.

I sense greater distress from the shardbearers gathered outside, as the human in which I reside begins using her power. Golden men begin to pile up in the accumulated slurry of vomit at her feet.

They do not have whatever power it is that animates me. Perhaps it is because they are inexact copies, though that did not seem to impede any of the previous humans her shard operated on. The golden men lie still.

I burst through her stomach, upon remembering another command I had once obeyed. _Fight the monsters_. _Stop them_.

I hit her with a beam of golden light, following up a few moments later with shorter, concentrated blasts. Her wounds regenerate rapidly, but her rage is dimming overwhelmed by the power of my attacks.

She has been thoroughly fought, I decided, so it is time for the next step. I send her plunging into the subterranean chamber below. She will be able to reach the surface in minutes, but by then, her desire to fight will have been subsided. Having fulfilled my directives, I fly off, tangentially aware of the confusion on the faces of the monster's companions. Their own destinies... I feel another burst of displeasure upon observing them. Though has lessened over the months, these unrestricted shards still inspire a certain distaste in me.

I ignore the question of their futures.

* * *

><p>"They're letting me join the Wards!"<p>

Although I understand each individual word in Taylor's statement without using my power, I can't comprehend their combined meaning. My main attention is devoted to the quadruped in front of me. I carefully track its movement, both now, and in the future. It will come into contact with a shardbearer soon, resulting in several interesting destinies.

Taylor sighs. "You aren't even paying attention, are you?" Though both her exhalation of breath and words indicate displeasure, her tone conveys the opposite. I can pick up on this unusual phenomena without my power as well, sometimes. It is strange enough to draw my attention from the dog; I turn quickly to face her, activating my interpretative abilities. Her probable futures have been altered considerably. Nearly all of them, however, do not feature participation in this gathering known as the Wards.

"I am," I reply.

Her lips curve upward, slightly; I recognize the gesture as one expressing amusement. "Well, sure, _now_ you are." She has grown more used to my movements, I suspect, as she does not flinch when I turn my attention to her, as she once did.

"Yes." It is not as if I used the past tense, I thought, puzzled. I suspect my knowledge of this language's grammar was lacking, as without the benefit of my power, any further dimension to either of our statements is lost to me.

Nonetheless, I feel a desire to speak without invoking my abilities. It appeals to something within me.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The second part of this chapter is a flashback; though of course, our hero's perception of time is such that it is written, like the rest of it, in the present tense. At the moment, the timeline has not significantly diverged from canon.**

* * *

><p>One of the <em>Endbringers<em>.

The term, when Taylor utters it as an aside, conjures in my mind a notable conversation, a significant command. One, not two of the fights I had been in, over the course of the past few months. I should be present for these fights, or at least, I ought to be. Historically, my attendance has been imperfect. Yet of late, I have become more familiar with a new human sensation known as _boredom_. I sense that these conflicts will be slightly less boring, particularly after the next two.

I use my power, finding the next location, the next target. Convenient, I notice; it will be near, or rather, in, my usual hangout. This is highly dissimilar to the previous attack; the first in which I participated since my 'change.'

* * *

><p>Humans, with their strange passion for names, have dubbed the settlement below <em>Canberra<em>. Likewise, the Endbringer about to materialize is known as the _Simurgh_. This is not what the creature calls herself, though, in fairness, she has never bothered to address the issue herself. I hover out of sight of the city's inhabitants, as well as of the sight of the endbringer. I remember my vision, I see the Simurgh bear down on the city, the screams of civilians joining her own.

I descend.

A hundred thousand gasps greet me, as a golden beam of mine strikes the Simurgh, searing its feathers and flesh. She has blocked my attack, but I have interrupted her attempt to lift a nearby building.

I grasp now the utility of my task; as I bombard the creature with blasts of light, its efforts at causing destruction are blunted, since it must focus part of its energies on the task of surviving my assault.

I pummel the Simurgh again, succeeding where the small coalition of shardbearers, or _capes_, who have gathered have failed. They have no chance, no hope of standing against her. She sees them all, as she sees everything that will happen, except... I am a blind spot in her vision. It cannot even see that it will survive this encounter, and hence can only... only...

I focus on a thread which I'm unraveling, putting my body on autopilot; it chases the Simurgh through the city, though she is dodging most of my attacks now. But this discovery of mine is more important, I think. She cannot fight me directly; but she is playing the odds, maximizing the probability that I, her sole weakness, will die before she does.

This... _displeases_ me.

I can feel myself losing something as I build a counterattack; years of lifespan lost. I didn't realize I had one, until now. But it is worth it. She can only exert long-term influence by manipulating certain individuals; rewriting their minds subtly, at a biochemical level. That, fortunately, can easily be rectified. Our positions are asymmetrical; I have no blind spots comparable to hers. She has an instinct for self preservation, I observe. This has potential.

I begin to blaze with golden light. It pushes me forward, at speeds neither the Simurgh, nor anyone else has ever observed me traveling. Surprise registers as well on the two capes presently attempting to land blows on the endbringer. _Legend _and _Eidolon_, my power informs me. The former bombards the Simurgh from afar, while the latter, who has been attempting a kind of counter-precognition, gives me a wide berth.

I rush in closely, imitating the human motion known as punching. The blows project golden light, but they throw the Simurgh only a short distance, allowing me to bash her repeatedly. There are soon no more feathers on the spot I fixate on, only a burning indentation which grows, relatively slowly but steadily. I note that I would have to bolster my power by several orders of magnitude to make further progress.

I only have to boost it a little, however, for the message to become clear. The Simurgh retreats; it will remain dormant for at least a year. Having fought it off, I proceed to counter what work she had just managed; lifting up manipulated humans. Most are civilians, though there are a few capes among them. I illuminate them as reconfigure their minds, restoring them to their pre-Simurgh states.

The only other who had any modicum of success fighting the Simurgh hangs back, wariness and fear emanate from him, though I suspect I am the only one who can sense this.

Puzzling.

The Endbringers, I can see, are summoned by way of his shard. Why, then, was he fighting against his own creations? I make a few attempts at _speculation_ before my power fills in the blank. Worthy opponents.

His companion, Legend, approaches me cautiously. I can see he will ask a question, if given a chance. I have no desire to be around him, however; his shard has that distasteful quality of Eidolon's, that repugnant aura of death and despair so many of them share.

I fly away.

* * *

><p>"She was in the Wards," Taylor says. Her tone, I am now aware, conveys anger and bitterness. Though she has not mentioned her by name, I know the cape she is speaking of.<p>

"Yes," I reply.

She pauses at the answer, considering her response. "You knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You're a precog, aren't you?"

"Yes." It is, after all, one of my many abilities.

She narrows her eyes, seemingly contemplating her options. "Are there any villains near by?"

It takes a bit of my power to decipher the meaning of the term _villain_, but I decipher it, and this allows me to answer. "The nearest one is about ten feet away."

Taylor jumps, and a figure emerges from behind a tree. I notice one of its leaves; it will, unlike its compatriots, never reach maturation. Instead it will be nipped in the bud, while partially developed. This is fascinating to me.

"Guess that's my cue to show myself," says the interloper. My powers revealed her names; though she had many, for a human. She was born with one, was already known to Taylor by another, and would introduce herself with still another.

"You're Tattletale," says Taylor, a hint of accusation in her voice.

"The one and only," she replies, grinning. "But you can call me Lisa, when we're out of costume, anyway."

Taylor looks shocked at this. "I- I'm not a villain. You shouldn't have-"

'Lisa' didn't stop grinning. "Relax, I know. But I don't think you're so sure about joining the Wards anymore, either."

"You were spying on me?"

"Not really. It's kinda my thing, y'know. Knowing stuff."

"Right," responded Taylor, warily. "So now that I'm down, you're trying to turn me to the dark side."

"Well, I mean, I think they kinda did that for me, right? You've seen what the so-called heroes tolerate amongst themselves. I have a hunch you won't have much to do with them from now on."

They continue their conversation, which is of little interest to me. The journey of the leaf commands my full attention, until I hear another question, directed at me.

"What's your name?" asks Tattletale.

I give my human moniker. She frowns.

"I can't get a read on you. Why?" Taylor makes some gestures, indicating that I shouldn't answer. I process them too late.

"Your shard is tempered," I reply.

She furls her brow. "And what do you mean by -"

"I think we're finished here," says Taylor. A number of small _bugs _ have assembled at her command. Her intent is to intimidate, and it will succeed.

Tattletale departs, but I see I will encounter her once more.

* * *

><p>"The ABB's coming for me," Taylor says, outside of my building. "Their new leader is <em>pissed<em>. She's not gonna rest until I'm taken care of."

"Yes," I offer. Each of the statements is true, as far as my abilities can affirm.

"I... don't want to put you in any danger... but could I ask you some questions, sometime in school, maybe? I'm not gonna just roll over for them."

"Yes."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:(Update: this chapter has been edited to improve flow and clarify an important point based on feedback thus far) This chapter is divided into two parts. The first is an interlude spanning a brief time period, omitting scenes already witnessed; the remainder is part of the regular story.**

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Taylor<strong>

Probably a Thinker of some kind. And what would the 'official' classification be for a _drying _power anyway? A Breaker? A shaker? neither of them really fit. Whatever the true nature of his powers, he'd somehow figured out, more or less, that I had powers.

If he is a precog, then he might very well have seen that I would beat Lung, and hadn't actually risked my life by telling me, at that moment, to go out and fight. Or maybe he hadn't, but didn't care. Or, I realize, the question might not have occurred to him. I knew there was nothing preventing people with mental disabilities from getting powers, but I hadn't actually _thought _about the implications. Who knows what kind of craziness he could set into motion?

On the other hand, I'm not planning on reporting him to the Protectorate anytime soon. The less I have to do with them, the better.

It was stupid to assume they'd be different from Winslow's administration. They have certain people in their circle, and obviously they don't care if one of them likes to run around torturing people. I can't believe I ever thought otherwise.

As if on cue, I see him in the park, gazing fascinatedly at... some ants? I wave, and he makes no gesture of recognition. But after my second attempt at a greeting, he whips around, fixating on me.

"Uh," I begin, slightly shaken, "You remember me, right? I'm Taylor Hebert." He stares, apparently attentive but completely unresponsive. It's... really fucking weird, but not any more so than our first meeting. "What- um, what do you call yourself?" I curse myself silently, managing to be awkward even in this socially maladroit company. His reply is quick, his voice not monotone but _off _in some unplaceable way.

"Zion."

* * *

><p>I see Tattletale slink off out of the corner of my eye, as 'Zion' and I head off. He must be able to find his way back home, I assume, or his parent or guardian wouldn't have let him wander around the park by himself, right?<p>

As I think it, I realize that _of course _they might. I wasn't sure what was worse; a person driven to a debilitating condition because of their power, or an _already _disabled person treated such that they would have a trigger event...

* * *

><p>The information I get from him is disturbing.<p>

The Undersiders want to recruit me, and are confident that they will succeed. Given that they have a precog - or something like it- in the form of Lisa, it might not be misplaced. I remember my anger towards the Wards, the Protectorate... really, just everything. Could they have gotten to me, in my moment of weakness?

I know precogs could interfere with each other; and wonder if Zion had thrown a wrench in their plans for me. He has certainly helped me in that respect, giving a rundown of their powers(although sometimes in terms I can barely understand), their connections (and if Coil is really behind them, he's much more dangerous than I thought), and most importantly, their next big heist.

My swarm is already in the bank. If I can beat Lung, taking on Coil and his henchmen... well it wouldn't be easy, but I had no intention of going down the alternative path.

* * *

><p>Heated air blasts past me, concentrated with dust, ash, and other particulates. I am not in my golden guise, however, and so I manipulate it discreetly, causing the effects, which would otherwise terminate nearby humans to veer away harmlessly, thus keeping my cover intact.<p>

A shard is ultimately responsible for this, as well as the other explosions which have occurred throughout the city. It's owner, one Bakuda, is familiar to me, as I was asked by Taylor describe her powers, at one point. I did not investigate it at the time, but I begin to wonder if there is a connection between these events. I must use my power to do so, as whatever chain of logic was governing her inquires is still incomprehensible to me, in spite of my increasing acclimation with humanity in general.

Admittedly, this familiarity has been limited to only two individuals. Besides Taylor, the other refers to herself as 'Lisa' or 'Tattletale.' She has cornered me several times now, asking questions for a certain length of time. These interrogations usually end when I lose interest, or she begins to bring her head into contact with various objects, usually her hands or a nearby surface.

Her own shard, I sense, is nearby, hiding in a place which will not be targeted. I move to her location. She yelps as she sees me, my arrival having not been detected by her shard.

"Goddamn it," she exclaims. "I'm still getting used to that." She looks me over, appraisingly. "So your power told you this was a safe spot, too?"

"No," I reply.

She stares. "You mean it's not safe here?"

"No."

"... Then, it _is_ safe here?"

"Yes."

She pauses again. "But that wasn't why you came here?"

"Yes."

"Do you... care about getting hit by one of those bombs?"

"No."

"... Why not?"

I pause. Questions starting with that one word often give me trouble. This one, I felt, might be comprehensible enough to answer without my power. Eventually, I say, "They cannot harm me."

She begins what will become a flurry of questions. None of them, I can see, will decrease my lifespan in the long run, and so I answer them all, with each reply rendering Tattletale more confused than the last.

* * *

><p>I float through the hallway underneath the massive settlement. The collection of energy would be sufficient to severely damage me in my human state, to impede me even now. There are few futures, however, which will see me make direct contact with it. The energy has been collected by the agency of one shardbearer: Phir Se. His companions have alerted him to my presence; but none of them are certain how to respond.<p>

The conversation proceeds in the _Punjabi_ language, which I understand like all others, as long as an unplaceable power of mine is in effect.

"It won't work," I say. Phir Se does not react to this, though many of the others have become shocked merely by my act of speech.

"Have you come to stop me?" Phir Se asks.

"No," I reply. My mission was my perenial do-goodery, and having made that statement, my power has dubbed my task fulfilled. The energy is stronger than ever as I leave.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't be talking to her," Taylor says.<p>

I do not respond. No inquiry, after all, was made.

"Why did you tell her anything, anyway?" she asks.

Again, I deliberate. "She asked."

Taylor sighs. "Do you - actually- have to do everything anyone asks?"

"No."

"But then... why?"

I wrack my memories. "I was told to be polite."

She looks at me oddly. "What? By who?"

"A British vagrant."

She walks away eventually, muttering under her breath.

* * *

><p>Another task assigned to me is to fight these Endbringers. I am surprised, however, to find one in this location. It has never emerged before, like the others. It was not accounted for by my power, which registered only twenty of the creatures. Yet, it is clearly similar in composition to the others, and present in a location rife with civilians.<p>

I grasp it, its containment vessel shattering before my golden hand. I hurl it with just enough force to break through the building's interior walls. The creature is unresponsive, but my orders are clear; I punch and kick at it, throwing it throughout the laboratory. As I work, I dimly perceive an approaching shardbearer; my power gives his name as 'Blasto.' After a few hours, the building is thoroughly destroyed, a smoldering mess. I judge the pseudo-endbringer sufficiently fought, and I throw it on the ground.

Blasto stares, his mouth opening and closing without emitting sound. A coalition of humans, some with shards and some without, descend upon the scene, looking from me, to the villain, to his various creations, most notably the Endbringer, which causes them some shock.

I leave as the crowd falls upon Blasto. Another Endbringer, I sense, will soon be taking up my time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Interlude: Lisa**

Standing up slightly straighter than in our previous encounter, meaning somewhat less suicidal, because of -.

A dead end, crude and abrupt. My leaps of intuition normally come on one after the other, overloading me with more information than I could handle, giving me headaches if it goes overboard.

This guy can cancel out my power, but is giving me a migraine all the same.

I had begun to forget how slow my deductive skills were before. Not anymore, of course. I had been forced to investigate the old-fashioned way; and I haven't gotten anything particular.

His name lets me look up records, social media posts, and, discreetly, old friends. Surprisingly, my powers work as I sift through these, at least to a point; any materials dating from before April 6th of this year were perfectly accessible to my power. I reap details of all kinds: his interests, dreams, motivations...

On that day, I knew, a building had collapsed; Scion had rescued a number of people from the rubble. He was among them, though he had been disabled ever since. Mentally, anyway. Physically, he'd made an astonishing recovery. And, I'd have to guess, triggered, because none of the medical records activated my power at all. Neither do the accounts of any of his friends, at least, whenever they talk about anything involving him post April 5th. Of course, the latter are sparse anyways; the guy is apparently a walking vegetable compared to his old self.

I manage to sneak up to his mother, quietly, in a context where she will be willing to make small talk. As usual, my power works just fine, insofar as I use it to help me find her, and get her talking. But all of her answers that could possibly give me anything on him come up empty.

She does seem to know he has powers - I don't need any kind of super intuition to interpret her surprised flinch when I describe a time I knew he was out late. But, even though she has all the deceptive abilities of a cow, without my power, I can't get anything more than a basic read off of her. She runs off abruptly when I try a follow up question without my power.

When Coil asks me what I'm spending more and more of my time on, I tell him. If Coil ever investigates him personally, I never hear about it. Coil never brings him up again.

I prepare for the next time we meet; my questions during the last encounter were sub-par. I didn't have my powers then, or even much presence of mind. If I had, I would have asked about those 'shards.'

Definitely a precog... It would explain everything, including his immunity to my powers. There is only one problem with this idea...

"No."

I curse internally, before realizing that there is no particular reason for him to tell the truth. He doesn't _seem _sophisticated enough to lie, but it's hardly a certainty. I fumble for my list of questions.

"So you have no knowledge of future events?"

"No."

"Then you do?"

"Yes."

"But you're not a precog..."

"Yes."

I sigh. "How would you define the word _precog_?"

"Using the American variant of the English language."

"... Can you define it?"

"Yes."

"... What is the definition of a precog?"

"A human with a shard enabling the obtaining of extratemporal information."

That brought up something I was saving for later. "What are these shards?"

He doesn't respond, though he doesn't avert his gaze in the slightest.

"You aren't gonna answer?"

"Yes."

"Why not?"

He pauses again. When he does reply, it sounds more _unnatural _than his previous replies.

"To do so would reduce both of our lifespans considerably."

Before I can say anything in response to this, sirens being to blare.

* * *

><p>The relatively large sonic disruptions appear to influence all nearby humans. They pour out of their domiciles, congregating at several locations. The one nearby addresses me.<p>

"It's an Endbringer," Lisa says. Some changes in her vocalizations indicate a considerable degree of distress.

"Yes." I reply.

She pauses, a conflicted expression appearing on her face. "Can... your power affect them?"

"Yes."

Her intention is to ask my assistance, since she doesn't know I will be rendering it anyway. "Do you-," she pauses, oddly reluctant to continue. "Do you want to help?"

It is a different order of question. I _will _help, of course, but do I _want _to?

* * *

><p>I amble through the building, following the Undersiders. The makeshift costume Sarah - or is it Lisa - Tattletale supplied me with draws some attention for its deviance from the norm, but the focus on me is far less than it would have been, had I arrived unmasked.<p>

I notice a familiar face. Taylor approaches, her face drawn in anger beneath her costume. She is accompanied by some other juvenile capes. _New Wave_ is the moniker they have chosen for themselves.

An argument ensues. Though I am its main subject, it is of little interest to me. A familiar quadruped has my attention; it trails one of the Undersiders.

A question from a disturbing source renders me alert. I turn to see a cape, Legend, awaiting a response. His form is meant to be pleasing to humans, but his shard is of that flavor which causes me a great deal of unease. Nevertheless, I reply.

"Yes."

My answer causes a lull in all nearby conversations.

"You're sure? You're not just guessing?"

I receive a premonition; I must act carefully to prevent the loss of a large portion of my lifespan. I invoke my powers to respond.

* * *

><p>The capes take their positions; the most durable assemble to witness the advance of the Endbringer. Among them is the Summoner. His presence arouses some curiosity in me, especially since he was present for the previous Endbringer fight. Yet his behavior does not seem consistent with the motive my power provided before. I have discovered some flaws with it, such as inaccurate definitions. A precog, after all, is a cape, which in turn is a human with a shard attached in a particular way. Whether I am human or not, I certainly do not meet those criteria. Perhaps Eidolon too was ordered to fight the Endbringers, and does so, even though his shard is what has brought them, will bring the other 17 into existence.<p>

He is not their creator, not their designer; his role is more like that of a human delivery man. Their engineering was accomplished by -

Just the thought causes me pain, a thousand times more than the niggling sensation I feel whenever I encounter tainted shards, though it comes, I think, from the same source.

I leave this dangerous train of thought behind, in time to see Leviathan break into a run. Several capes ask me questions, which I answer as accurately as my efficiency-corrected power will permit.

The fight, I can see, is proceeding with a relatively low level of terminations, compared to historical norms. Capes termed _Movers _transport humans based on my advice. Capes, likewise, reposition themselves accordingly. Leviathan advances towards its goal at a faster pace than he would have otherwise, but fewer humans, shardbearers or shardless, are dying.

"Can you tell us when Scion will arrive?" asked one of the capes. Another turned to admonish her, claiming that it would be impossible for me to answer. As I begin to reply, I notice something of considerable interest: Leviathan has shifted his aim from his previous target. His movements are now directed towards the source of the interference to his aims: namely, me.

I answer the first question, stating the exact immediately upcoming time when my golden form will manifest in the city. The surprise and hope which this statement generates is tempered by my subsequent pronouncements, which inform them of Leviathan's advance towards our location.

I do not join the fleeing capes, as my power has suggested a simple, low-cost method of discreetly assuming the shape of Scion, while leaving none to further inquire of my human form in such a way as to reduce my lifespan.

Leviathan's tail whips at me. I move so as to appear struck, and sink down into the water.

* * *

><p>One minute remains until the moment I told them I'd arrive. I move away from the city, then begin a descent, leaving a trail of golden light in my wake. A number of casualties have occurred in my brief absence.<p>

I lob a blast at Leviathan, and he is sent flying, crashing into rubble.

He rises immediately, but he is far less agile than the Simurgh; he cannot dodge my attacks at all. His outer husk burns in the face of my barrage. I feel something almost like pity as the Endbringer struggles, unable to even send a wave into a crowd of bystanders, thanks to my light. I feel further confusion as the Endbringer's summoner -Eidolon- strikes in the wake of my attacks. They are somewhat less powerful than mine, though the difference in damage is less than an order of magnitude.

Perhaps it is a human game of some kind?

I save my philosophical questions for later, focusing instead on further fighting the Endbringer. Its resistance is crumbling, and I can see it will soon flee. I decide to chase it for a certain length of time, perhaps to the ocean depths; I have not yet filled my fighting quota.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Now, the human identity I assigned our hero is slightly problematic in terms of the canon plot; I haven't decided if I will handwave Taylor not recognizing him as some difference in this 'verse or adjust the previous chapters.**

* * *

><p>Grotesque. Vile. Abominable.<p>

Even without my power, I can summon up the words, but even with it, I cannot accurately convey the sensation of the containers. Most of those present can only see the cannisters' exteriors, but my powers allow me a truer vision, though I do my best to avoid it. Nonetheless, a part of me seems inexplicably drawn towards the nameless wretchedness contained within. It is as if my mind seeks to torture itself: one part performing the scouring while the other recoils.

There is nothing else nearby that can significantly affect me in any way; not even the unusually dense cluster of shards drawing near. But all my senses, all of my mental effort is devoted to grappling with that which lies before me.

_Pain_. That is the sensation. Part of it, anyway. _Despair_. That was another component. I realize, without use of my power, that I have observed these sensations elsewhere. The reaction of my 'mother,' in those futures where I did not assume my current form in her presence. It affected a number of individuals in the city, after Leviathan's visit. Would they have the answer? The negative sensation is unpleasant enough that I grow unconcerned about the reduction of my lifespan. My powers grasp for possible solutions; but they are convoluted. I know my power can fail me at times; it is a dark coincidence that this, the worst problem I can clearly recall encountering, should be one of those instances.

I snap up in shock, a reaction to a disgusting display. One of the containers has spilled over. The sight of the liquid spilling onto the floor provokes in me a sharp, nearly unbearable pain, but it recedes moments later, as the contents combust. I ignore the frenzied humans nearby, who are fleeing.

Two bottles are broken at once, and I am lucid enough to use my power productively. The fire and heat will dispose of any spilled liquid now, but the final bottle has merely rolled away; out of sight of the intruding capes.

I marshal my remaining skill, building up the... _resolve _to destroy the final bottle.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Jacob<strong>

"Crawler! You can finish up later! Group meeting!"

The monstrosity ignores my command, and it would be a sign of weakness to repeat it again to no effect. Instead, I turn my attention to the target of his attacks.

A nondescript man, a boy, really. His face is contorted with grief, but beyond a slight trembling, he does not affect any fear. Normally, I would take this as evidence of a stoic character breaking at the seams at the reality of his impending demise.

Normal people, however, didn't go one on one with Crawler and survive. One could hardly call it one-on-one, at that. Crawler is in a full frenzy, pausing his attacks only long enough for his limbs to regrow. He tries to headbutt the boy, but the motion merely carves a person-shaped hole in his head. It may be my imagination, but Crawler seems to regenerate from this injury more slowly than he ought to. He stops after another swipe takes his arm off, and it's _slow _to come back; the healing reduction is clear, now. Of course, Crawler's true desire is to grow stronger, not to die, and this newcomer, somehow, can only offer him the prospect of the latter.

This... could be interesting.

The Siberian rushes in. She _tears _his flesh easily, but there isn't any spray of blood and guts. His wounds heal instantly; she causes no more damage than she would to a pile of pudding.

Slowly, the boy begins to raise his right hand, staring at something in the distance, apparently ignoring the Siberian. When she tries to sink her teeth into it, to rip it off, she disappears.

While I would like to flee, my instinct is to stand my ground. Anything less will set off alarm bells in the others, bring nascent neuroses, dreams of treachery to the surface. The Siberian winks back into existence.

"Wow," exclaimed Bonesaw, "He's tough! Bet I could take him, though!"

If this remark annoys the Siberian, she doesn't show it. The boy's hand shakes slightly, his focus evidently centered on... a can? It floats, evidently at his behest. Finally, it drops, smashing into one of Burnscar's blazes. He relaxes visibly, as if his problems are over.

"Can we help you?" I drawl sardonically. I have sufficient control to not react at his whiplike movement. He stares at me directly as he answers.

"No." A pause. Then, "It is done."

A wild impulse comes to me. "I don't suppose you would be on your way, then? We were about to have a meeting."

"Ok," he says. Just like that, he walks away.

The Siberian growls, chasing after him. In a few minutes, she rejoins us.

It occurs to me that the strange boy had been rather pliant, for all his power. If he had complied with my request so easily, one could only imagine what else I could get him to do... But no, he would be dangerous an element to deal with. The Siberian was controllable only through careful manipulation, chiefly her affection for Bonesaw. This one was evidently stronger, and with no obvious carrots or sticks beyond a nondescript, now melted canister. The was an indescribably emptiness to his voice, resisting all of my normally instinctive personality analysis.

I move to the matter of Mannequin, who appears to be missing most of his appendages.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Susan<strong>

"Your son is dead," Glory Girl says.

Everything freezes, but only for a moment.

"My _son _is up in his room," I say angrily. Or at least, he was five minutes ago. Would that be enough time to...

Of course it would - he's Scion.

The assembled group of heroes reacts sharply to this. Several of them stare at one of their number, a familiar looking cape... Weaver, that's it. The newest member of New Wave. Her backstory had been... eye-opening to say the least. I recognized most of the Wards as well; they seemed to be getting along well with the capes from New Wave, considering the success of the very sordid lawsuit they had brewing.

"Can we... see him?" Weaver asks.

"Well..." I wonder how much they know. Just after I saw him transform, I thought that somehow, my teenage son had become Scion. But that couldn't be; the golden man had been around long before... Although, even as I thought of it, I realized that it wasn't out of the question for Scion to have time travel powers. Could he really have triggered, warping back in time to perform every act prior to his trigger, after which he emerged from the rubble?

"Please, Mrs. Veder, some of our friends need help, and if your son is still alive-"

"I thought you came over to pay your respects," I say, perhaps a bit too sharply.

"We had a couple of things on our itinerary," says a cape I don't recognize; a girl with dirty blonde hair. Actually, there's something slightly familiar about her.

"The Slaughterhouse 9 are after my sister," blurts out Glory Girl.

A few months ago, having anything to do with anyone involved with them wouldn't have been something I'd even consider. But if it was true, he might really be the only one who can help... I make my decision. "GREG!" I shout. "You have visitors!"

He doesn't call out "MOM" petulantly, poke his head out awkwardly, or come rushing down the stairs.

After the accident, I thought that maybe nothing was left of him; and at first this seemed to be true. Even now, he walks strangely: perfectly upright, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless.

But he does seem to be improving, bit by bit; after all, this time he actually responds to my yelling. Just earlier today, his face hadn't been the mask of indifference it usually was. OK, it was more like his face was twitching than him actually changing his expression, but it looked as if he felt sad, or in pain.

My hug didn't seem to affect him, like always. Or maybe it did; he did go back to his 'expressionless mode' soon after. But I had never been happier to see him sad. He might still be in there, somewhere; somehow.

Weaver stiffens at the sight of him, and I wait to find out what this is all about.

* * *

><p>"Everyone thought Leviathan killed you!" Taylor exclaims.<p>

"No," I reply. She misunderstands me, assuming I am confirming that I am alive, even though I am really calling her out on her false statement. I had been completely aware of the fact that Leviathan had not killed me.

"How come you didn't run when he was coming?" asks Lisa. "And why didn't you show up afterwards?"

"I pretended to be hit with Leviathan's tail, and escaped in the confusion," I reply.

Apparently satisfied by my response, they begin to interrogate me about a group of capes known as the Slaughterhouse 9. It is curious that they should ask such questions given that certain members of the latter are rapidly approaching our location.


	7. Chapter 7

**Interlude: Victoria**

Tattletale might already know; well, at least that something's happened. But even she's absorbed in the discussion. We'd moved to Mrs. Veder's dining room to continue making our plan; with the help of a precog who could predict even Scion, it had seemed possible that we could actually stand a chance, even without calling Legend for help. But then...

"He couldn't actually have left, could he?"

* * *

><p>Kevin Norton seems surprised to hear my vocalizations. It takes the use my power to determine the reason: he has never experienced it firsthand; only once has he even heard of me speaking.<p>

"Then... you understand?" Kevin Norton asks. "You'll try to kill the endbringers?"

"Yes."

"And.. you think you can kill them?"

"Yes."

"And... you.. were always able.. to.. kill them?"

"Yes."

Kevin Norton collapses, shaking irregularly. One of his companions, a female, grabs him, saying ineffective words. Untrue statements, at that. This bothers me enough to drive me to speak unbidden.

"No," I interject, addressing the woman, Lisette. "Had Kevin Norton not asked me to do so, I would have continued to fight the Endbringers in the manner which I previously had."

They are both still. Losing interest, I observe the rain, lightly dousing us; the clouds, still oversaturated with water; the rickety bridge, which will retain its structural integrity anywhere from two to twenty-seven years, depending on several factors. I am one of them.

Another question draws my attention.

"You've only been fighting them because he told you to?" Lisette asks.

"Yes."

"Why did you listen to him?"

Another _why._ Worse, my power's attempt to answer is more than a little inadequate. It can reach back in time to show me the moment when Kevin Norton approached my golden form, but the information provided concerning my thought processes is ... _alien_.

I ask why I cannot understand, but this proves equally ineffective. Finally, I provide an answer based only on my own observations.

"I respond to verbal instructions generally."

A bit of a pause, now. "So if, if a villain, for example, told you to do something... you'd do it?"

"Yes."

"H-have you - already done things that villains have told you?"

"Yes."

My grasp of the vocabulary of any human language is insufficient to accurately describe their contorted faces, much less the mental states which their expressions imply.

"Who?"

I retrieve his identity, but it is meaningless to them, so I give his cape name. "Jack Slash." Curiously, neither Kevin nor Lisette reacts to this... although, I realize, staying so unusually still is a reaction in and of itself.

"What..." asks Lisette finally, "did he say to you?"

"He asked if he could assist me."

"What did you say to him?"

"I replied that he could not." This produces something like relief in them.

"Was... that all?"

"No."

"...What else did he tell you?"

"He asked if I could proceed away, on the grounds that he was about to have a meeting."

"And... you did?"

"Yes."

This snaps Kevin Norton out of his stupor. "Listen, Zion. You can_not_ listen to Jack Slash. And if you see him again, you have to take him out. Take out the Nine, the Sleeper, monsters like that. Fight them and kill them."

I nod in affirmation.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: William<strong>

I can't locate Bonesaw.

Normally... though normally, of course I wouldn't have failed in the first place... Normally, I would have asked Jack, but he was the first go missing.

His leadership capabilities are, or perhaps were, substantial; I doubt the group will hold together much longer. It seems only fitting that I abandon the 'rules' of this game he had set up.

The whole point of the Siberian, after all, is a rejection of all the rules, the constraints, of human society. After - after the incident, the opportunity presented itself, and it killed two birds with one stone. She would be back, in a fashion, through me. I would live for the both of us, and there would be no consequences. Not ever again.

Cherish... is she aware of my true nature? Perhaps. With elaborate revenge plans looking less likely by the moment, she was probably the most dangerous, out of 'companions.' But her capture was easy to work out, to trace from eyewitnesses who told me what I needed before I tore them apart. Taken, probably by one of the local factions. They'd been cooperating from the beginning; that was clear, now. Legend, though, still didn't seem to be in the loop.

_If they aren't going to him... they must still be playing the game... _

Which would imply that the disappearances are the work of another.

I see Crawler fly through the air, a golden trail of light propelling him upwards. Scion blasts him further and further into the sky, clearly toying with him.

_Fantastic._

The one individual that could put an end to my journey. The differences in his behavior would trouble me quite a bit if I gave two shits about the fate of the world anymore. Obviously, this was the onset of the change Contessa predicted; when the entity would cease its attempts to simulate heroism and carry out something like the vision she'd had of the future.

A final blast eradicates Crawler.

* * *

><p>The mission, namely, to fight and kill each member of the Slaughterhouse 9, is nearly complete.<p>

The projection of William Manton slices into me, as before. Though the blows are just as ineffective, I realize, with only a slight prodding from my power, that he will make the connection quickly. I think quickly, fulfilling my orders while denying him time to cause complications.

I blast the projection with a different ability. It is equally ineffectual as anything else would be, but it is a deception. My true attack strikes the projector where he is concealed. He staggers, and the projection with it. I lift all three of our forms, and we barrel through the sky, with William Manton still hidden in the floating debris.

The distance we cover is considerable; on impulse, I choose a location with an unusual density of shards to make my landing. We tear through the barriers keeping the structure apart from the world. They are tougher than I would have estimated; the Siberian penetrates through more easily than I do. The accompanying destruction is immense, though I mitigate it somewhat, so that our fight will be appropriately concluded.

A few more blasts of light, coupled with disorienting blows to the projector, and now all the capes present who have not burst through the path we carved have observed our battle.

I compress the shrapnel under which William Manton is hiding, just as I direct a large blast at his projection. The fight both appears to end and ends.

There is nothing more to do for the moment, and I decide to idle, for a moment. The sensation is most akin to human... tiredness. Odd, since I barely burned through any of my lifespan. I merely observe as the strange collection of capes continue to stream out. One of them, who has assumed the form of a juvenile, approaches me. Since her presence in this place marks her as a villain, I do not listen to her speech.

The futures made possible by the spreading of these shards cause me to experience something like pleasure. I decide to follow Kevin Norton's advice more closely from now on.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: All of the snippets in this update are omakes. I opted to write them in the third person both because I felt it was more appropriate, somehow, and also to distinguish them from the main story.**

**Also, as the final omake here is a crossover, I must note that Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, from which this scenario is derived, is a fanfiction of the former by Eliezer Yudkowsky.**

* * *

><p><strong>Golden Mid-Morning<strong>

Madison hadn't wanted anything to do with it, along with most of their friends. Even Emma had made excuses, managed to back out.

As if losing your mind was a get out of jail free card. Sophia knew better. All it proved was that the freak had been prey. She still was, even if most people found the hunt distasteful.

Her stare was blank, her blinking slow and mechanical. Taylor Hebert stood out now more than ever, after she'd come out of the locker.

The alley was deserted. There was no one to keep her from what she deserved.

Hebert was walking back and forth, apparently aimlessly. Sophia snuck in, using her shadowform, materializing behind a strategically placed trash can. As Hebert approached, she rushed out, her leg in place...

The pain in her leg was sharp and intense - Hebert had just, _kept on walking;_ her spindly legs somehow overpowering Sophia's without any apparent difficulty. Sophia yelled as she fell, while Taylor continued to trot away.

"Where the fuck are you going, twerp?" Sophia's brain was on autopilot at this point, and it hadn't bothered to process the fact that Taylor's leg had somehow acquired the stopping power of a skyscraper. "Fight me!"

The moment Sophia'd said it, Taylor pivoted in place, facing Sophia head-on. The disabled girl uttered a single word.

"OK."

* * *

><p><strong>Golden Afterschool<strong>

It was fucking _Scion_.

Principal Blackwell didn't ordinarily swear, even in her internal monologue. But that was her reaction upon seeing the golden man pull one her students out of a locker stuffed with filth. Her private response to the publicity was considerably more profane, admittedly. The fact that the school was a place that Scion had to save someone from once was bad enough...

She turned the corner, walking towards the entrance to the cafeteria, and there he was, right on time.

Scion, the world's most powerful hero, was standing still as a statue, in the center of the hallway. His face was as expressionless as ever, but the _scalding_ sensation emanating from him could have made her swear he was glaring straight into her soul.

OK, admittedly, that incident had been pretty severe. But there were worse schools, surely, in _America_, even, to say nothing of foreign countries.

And yet, every weekday, from the first bell to the last, Scion decided to set up shop right in her school. From 7 AM to 5 PM, at first, until international protest had resulted in the forcible termination of Winslow's afterschool activities. It also meant the end of detention, but discipline problems had diminished considerably, lately.

There was talk about shutting the school down for good, hoping Scion wouldn't just follow the bullied, or the bullies, to continue his unblinking surveillance. It would, she knew, be the end of her career, and at this point, she might just welcome it.

Where, she sometimes wondered, did it all go wrong? When she'd given Sophia a little leeway? When she hadn't listened to earlier complaints? Or when she had, in the face of the golden man's incessant stare, rhetorically asked for someone able to monitor the halls throughout the school day to prevent all instances of bullying..

In her darker moments, she wondered if, in fact, the golden man had _actually _taken what she said at face value, and was here, for some incomprehensible reason, because she'd asked. She might have asked Scion, if she had the nerve to speak to him again.

* * *

><p><strong>Golden Night<strong>

Jack Slash paused, but only for a moment. Opportunities like this didn't come along often.

"Wait!" he shouted.

The boy paused. He turned to face Jack with the same rapid movement.

"Stand on one leg," Jack said, in a level voice.

The boy immediately did so, standing perfectly upright with no apparent difficulty.

Jack felt another impulse. "Show me your true form."

There was brief kaleidoscope of sensations reminiscent of his trigger event. When the haze subsided, he could still see _something _massive, unimaginable in its vastness, which he couldn't put a name to. It permeated every corner of the world, and yet, it seemed to center, somehow, on the personage of -

Scion.

For a moment, Jack was lost in the possibilities. This was a moment too long.

"Scion, kill the others," Cherish said.

The blasts were faster than the Siberian.

* * *

><p><strong>Golden Answer<strong>

Mr. Grim, having finished his work, retreated back into the crowd. The tombstone was left next to dismembered corpse of the Boy-Who-At-Last-No-Longer-Lived, since, after all, fragments of his skull and bits of his brains were on it.

Voldemort flicked his wand, and the grisly mess was enveloped in Fiendfyre. It was therefore of considerable surprise to everyone present to see the death of the flames reveal not a pile of ash, but instead, a fully intact, seemingly awake, Harry Potter.

The boy stood up with a jolt. Every death eater present unleashed a barrage of spells, but even the killing curse appeared to have no effect at all.

Still hovering above, Voldemort noted that Harry wasn't making any attempt to flee.

_"You won't run, child?" _Voldemort asked, in parseltongue.

Harry turned to face him, as if he hadn't been paying him any attention until that moment. "_No."_

_"You have decided to accept your fate?"_

A pause. "No."

_"You think I will not kill you?"_

_"Yess."_

_"Asss you believe that I cannot kill you." _

_"Yess."_

His death eaters had been casting every relevant ward Voldemort believed they were capable of. None of it seemed to be getting them anywhere. Voldemort turned to more pressing matters.

_"Are you planning on desstroying world?" _

The boy paused before hissing back "Yess"

_"What of the Vow that bindss you?" _

_"No vow bindss me."_

Voldemort stopped his questioning for a full minute. He began again with a new, pressing question.

_Can you lie in Parsseltongue?"_

_"Yess."_

This was turning out considerably worse than the first prophecy.


	9. Chapter 9

"Who's Dinah?" asks Taylor. Lisa's body language, as I am now capable of recognizing, indicates that she would prefer I not elaborate on this remark. However, no explicit request was made.

"She is a twelve-year-old parahuman."

"And she doesn't want to work for Coil?"

"No."

"Why does she?"

"She is incapable of leaving, and she cannot tolerate what happens if she does not work." Interestingly, the expression on Taylor's face somehow reminds me of the sensation I experience at the sight of capes with the vile shards. I wonder if this is more than a coincidence.

"What... what happens if she doesn't do her work?"

"Coil will deny her substances that she desires."

"Food?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

"Drugs," Lisa says. "He's got her doped up, and she gets hit with withdrawal if he withholds them from her. She calls them 'candy.'"

I sense the likelyhood of a conflict increasing with each word Tattletale says. Peculiarly, this causes me a mix of pleasure and discomfort.

Taylor's ensuing verbalizations are difficult to comprehend, as I am at least familiar enough with conventional human interactions to assume she is not discussing a new variant of sapients with solid human excrement in place of their heads. I am forced to use my power, but it draws my attention elsewhere, to the myriad of conflicts nearby. The concentration of such has recently increased dramatically, for some reason.

I update Taylor on the forces Coil has at his disposal, with exacting descriptions of their powers. I am about to leave, but she begins a final line of inquiry, concerning one of Coil's minions who is in the near vicinity.

"Is it true that Coil threatened Tattletale into working for him?" Taylor asks, keeping her gaze on the other girl.

"Yes," I answer.

"How?"

I use my power. "Several methods. He used the threat of death to initiate her employment." The likelihood of immediate, proximate conflict, decreases somewhat. This distracts me enough to cease my speech, attempting to deduce the source of this change.

"What else did he do?" asks Taylor, in slightly different tone.

"He tortures her regularly," I respond. Both of them react to this revelation, and the prospect of imminent, nearby conflict decreases dramatically.

It is Lisa who asks the next question. "What are you talking about?"

I have enough experience now to find something unsettling about this question. Why would she inquire about something which happened to her? Nevertheless, I answer, using both my power and my new knowledge to build an informative statement.

"Beginning approximately two weeks ago, concommittent with the Marquis incident, Coil reevaluated his risk and reward estimates, concluding that regular enhanced interrogations of his subordinates would improve his position. He engages in this activity at various opportune moments, usually terminating the subject afterwards." It is the longest coherent sentence I have spoken, and I feel something akin to pride.

Taylor is apparently less impressed, for she is completely silent, now. Lisa asks another question. "_Terminating? _You mean-"

"Execution."

She stares, and then, I sense an increase in comprehension. "This happens in the alternate timelines he runs."

"Yes."

"How many times has he done this to me? Who else has he done it to?"

"You have died six times at his hands," I reply. "He performs similar actions with all of the Undersiders, all but one of the Travelers, all of the other capes who serve him, as well as most of his non-parahuman subordinates, though in the latter case such incidents are less frequent." As I relay this information, the likelihood of a conflict, slightly further in the future, increases.

I realize that she was not aware of her previous deaths. Could it be that she, and by extension, humans in general, are unaware of even the closest alternate realities?

"I thought his power let him shut down the timeline?" she asks. After I affirm this, she continues, "Then, why does he kill his target at the end?" I sense she has a good idea of the answer, in spite of her question.

"To do so provides him with considerable pleasure."

I soon find myself recounting various such incidents, describing the participants, as well as the acts of death and pain to which they are subjected. I recount how he pits members of the same team against each other in contests to the death, thus determining precisely which members of each team would turn on the others, and which would not. I describe the latter as only one of Coil's motivations in doing this, the other, of course, being the considerable satisfaction he derived from the begging, screaming, and dying groans of the participants.

I finally leave after they formulate a plan, with the odds of a large, immediate conflict higher than ever.

* * *

><p>I traverse the Atlantic, leaping over Europe. There is one more target given by Kevin Norton which I have not yet dealt with.<p>

The expanse of Siberia contains few humans, and even fewer with substantial metabolic activity. I hone in on one of the latter, an individual who Kevin Norton refers to as 'The Sleeper.' I enter his domain, feeling the breach of a certain kind of field, after which I devote half an hour to fighting him vigorously, before I subsume his body in golden light, eliminating every trace of him I can detect.

I fly away, preparing to cross the Pacific in pursuit of a significant battle. After I have traveled a certain distance, I perceive the Sleeper again, waving goodbye.

* * *

><p>The fight has proceeded for hours.<p>

The opponent demanded a fight, and I obliged. He has neither retracted this request, not shown much sign of diminishing his strength. Therefore, it puzzles me that my power indicates that the fight will soon end, even though there is little threat to either of our lifespans.

_Lung's_ body more resembles that of a reptile than a mammal. Simple steps on his part carve swatches of destruction in the outskirts of the ruins of Vancouver. Villains have been besieging the city recently, enough so to attract my attention. My chief target, now, has become this cape, who rebounds from each blast I fire. I find I must increase my power each time to generate the same degree of knockback.

Lung slams into a pile of rubble, for what I sense is the last time. He rises again, comparable in size to Leviathan, and in some respects more powerful. Suddenly, he stops, beginning to decline in size, causing the surrounding inferno to dissipate.

I sense considerable significance in the upcoming moments, and hover in for a closer look, traveling at an angle so as to remain undetected for a sufficient length of time. I fire off a golden blast in the distance, misleading the assembled capes into believing I have departed.

"What if _hadn't_ fucking worked?" asks a cape called Acidbath. 'We'd be dead."

"A calculated risk," replies Teacher. "Even with most of the Protectorate hunting String Theory, once they realize we have Dragon, they'll pursue us without rest. Or rather, they would have. We are now in possession, as you see, of a significant deterrent." He inclines his head towards Lung.

"I thought Dragon was the deterrent."

"She'll serve as one as well, of course. but she has potential for much more. Until they become aware that she's been compromised, there are a number of.." He trails off at the sight of me.

It is irrelevant, as I simply use my power to determine what he would say. But this answer is of little interest to me, as is Teacher, whose effort to apply his power on me fails. I plot a course through North America, such that I might eventually return to Brockton Bay.

* * *

><p>I return to Brockton Bay, noting the significant decrease in population. In my human form, I notice I attract less attention than under normal circumstances, with most individuals nearby fleeing in a direction opposite my own trajectory.<p>

I stop at the sight of a familiar cape. Taylor appears different, somehow. Particularly, her skull and much of her bone structure seems to have changed unusually, she appears to be present in several locations in the city simultaneously. I begin to wonder if my power is experiencing more technical issues.

Taylor smiles, although there is none of the friendliness which one would commonly associate with this expression. She opens her mouth to speak.


	10. Chapter 10

Taylor's behavior only grows stranger with the passage of time. I stop answering only as I notice both the cost of using my power and consequences of my actions are beginning to affect my lifespan.

"What, you're not g-gonna talk?" she asks. "Y-your autism m-makin' you f-freeze up?"

No," I reply. Taylor doesn't respond, or pause to relay her answer to her master, as before. She collapses, her anatomy unable to bear the strain of her poorly distributed bones. As she dies, she issues a command.

"Go to Noelle."

Having nothing better to do, I amble over to the position of this familiar cape.

She is a few blocks away, surrounded by legions of capes. Too late, I notice that the potential actions I can take which will not restrict my lifespan have drastically decreased in number.

There is a considerable amount of activity in the near vicinity, with numerous capes trading blows with those generated by 'Noelle's' power. The girl turns her enormous body to face me.

"Do you know how to fix me?" she asks.

The list of successful actions is small enough that I use my power to its maximum extent, analyzing her usage of the word 'fix.'

"Yes," I reply.

She waits expectantly, with screams and crunching noises filling the background.

"Are you going to wait all day or tell me?" she bellows.

"Tell you." I reply.

She waits for me to reply, becoming angrier by the moment.

"HOW?" she finally asks.

"There are several methods by which it may be accomplished."

She stomps in fury before calming herself. Finally, she devises a response.

"Do or say whatever you need to do to fix me IMMEDIATELY!"

I move forward, towards one of her vomiting mouths, my actions guided by my power. It takes every bit of effort I can muster, as the presence of some of her capes, the 'Eidolons' seems to be taxing my abilities merely by being present. Putting one of my hands on her rough skin; I access the shard to which she is connected.

It is dead, and contacting it is revolting. But I press on, finally severing the connection. Noelle is returned to a body which complies with her idea of being fixed, and the massive lower body to which she was attached begins to convulse and die. Noelle is injured by these movements. I myself make a hasty retreat, and the army of Eidolons lead the more stable clones away. Some of the others appear to be resorting to suicide tactics, many of them dismembering themselves upon a barrier of time-stopped spider silk protecting a group of heroes.

I return moments later, in my golden form, to wipe out those clones which remain.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: David<strong>

The grim silence is almost complete, broken only by the occasional sobs of one of the Travelers. All of them, conscious or otherwise, are restrained with Dragon-collars. All of them lie facedown in the ruined street, weapons drawn from all fronts.

That they would be executed was without question; the fall of the Birdcage rendered imprisonment of dangerous capes an impossibility. It hadn't been done for one reason.

_Me. _

Well, not _me_, but a copy. One of the dozens of copies Noelle had managed to spit out. I'd hoped to die, or finally boost my powers; it looked like Noelle would be doing both today. Her ability had spiked considerably, shortly after she'd swallowed me. By all accounts she'd seemed omniscient, commanding her minions so as to perfectly counter assault after assault. Perhaps she'd somehow devised a method of restoring her body? Fortunately she didn't seem to have retained control of her clones afterward.

Unfortunately, the clones seem to have done enough damage without even lifting a finger. Some of the Eidolons, it seemed, had divulged information about, among other things, Cauldron.

At this point, to be honest, I would welcome death. I failed even when it came to containing the Birdcage breakout; for someone who went there willingly, Glaistig Uaine _really _didn't want to go back. Worse, she somehow knew about my powers. Now of course, having this information blared across the world was the least of my worries.

Alexandria's arguments aren't working. But a precog power I choose suggests that we will survive this encounter. As I see the faces of numerous precogs in the crowd slacken, I realize this may not be a good thing.

Dragon's pronouncement of an Endbringer attack does not surprise me. The fact that two have materialized at once does.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: In light of feedback, I have made a significant modification to Chapter 9.**

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Morrigan <strong>

The foam doesn't block all of my powers. I can still see the past and the future; my biokinesis is also working.

Nearly every future shows my imminent death. I work in overdrive, causing just enough damage to make my captors weary, without drawing enough attention to my efforts. If they notice I'm working on them, it's game over, man. For me and the hundreds of thousands of people nearby.

Acceptable losses, they'd say later. And the world, having been told an accurate version of those events, would agree. Scion, who'd welcomed me into the world with a four-hour beating, seemed like a piker compared with these people.

What did I ever do to them?

Yeah, OK, there's someone who looks like me, and she's done some unforgivable shit. And the resemblance may be more than skin deep. Not that I have too good an idea how she works, either. Just that I noticed someone else looking, when I was.

Up to ten hours in the past, anywhere in the world. At any number of futures, but no more than five hours ahead. Those are my limits. But whenever I look, I can sense _her._ She's aware of me, of everything, as far as I can see. Some of the knowledge I was born with prepares me for this. Some of it... might be _from_ her.

I wriggle out of the foam. Putting all of my power towards seeing the future, I flee the the facility.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Weld<strong>

He looks like Eidolon, but he's _off. _In his appearance, of course, but also personality-wise. Granted, I haven't worked much with the Protectorate's most powerful cape, but from what I'd seen of him in the Leviathan fight, he wasn't quite as talkative.

I hope he's way off with what he's saying, too.

"We created your kind," he says. "And yes, I mean you freaks. We changed you, and your memories. Sometimes we'd sell you off to someone needing an enemy, but mostly once we found we had no use for you we'd just chuck you into the garbage, where you belonged." Eidolon smiles as he says this, the visible portion of his oddly elongated face alight with real pleasure.

_He's messing with me. Trying to get me to... to what?_

On the one hand, who could prosecute Eidolon, in spite of his confession to crimes on a massive scale? But I couldn't think of any good reason for him to tell me, or anyone, any of this. It was as if he was trying to cause as much chaos as possible.

"I'm not going to take your bait," I reply as calmly as possible. The others should be at my position soon, though most of them have no idea what's going on. From what I can work out, Eidolon is officially in Brockton Bay, not too far south of here, on classified business. "I know I can't beat you." Rumors had been spreading on the boards like wildfire. An organization called Cauldron, responsible for monsters. For the endbringers? It would explain why a new one had emerged. That the Triumvirate was embroiled in the mess was another rumor.

"No tricks here, tin man," Eidolon says easily. "Just thought ya oughta know." His grin widens. "Ah, the main event."

For a moment, I'm struck with horror. Then I realize that it can't possibly be the Simurgh; she has the proportions of a normal human woman. Nor is her face as artificial, she seems desperate, flailing, jabbing at Eidolon from a distance.

Eidolon gestures, and she slams face-first into the ground. Then she rises, her motion artificial, like a puppet. Eidolon looks at me expectantly, then scowls.

"Pathetic," he says. The pseudo-Simurgh collapses, shuddering, and Eidolon flies off. I approach her.

"Please don't," she manages to gurgle out. I hadn't consciously realized I was moving to try to finish her off until she'd said it.

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude: Fortuna<strong>

"No," I remind the Doctor. "I can predict Eidolon well enough, but he's technically immune to my power. And there's no way I can model these clones."

"I see," she murmurs. "Although, in some ways, this exceeds our wildest expectations. We always wanted another Eidolon.."

I tune out the Doctor's blather, even though I should at least point out that the destruction of the world seemed almost as likely at the hands of this swarm, whose powers, now spread across the world, effectively render mine useless, at least on Earth Bet. Doormaker will not create portals for them, but they have, it seems, all or part of the original's memories.

They know where we are. At least one of them will probably be able call up an interdimensional travel power.

We'd done terrible things, to try and save just a bit of humanity. And now it looks like Scion will have nothing to destroy but a bunch of parallel, lifeless rocks.

* * *

><p>It is an odd coincidence that Taylor, Lisa, and in fact, nearly all of my human associates are traveling towards the city I would have arrived at in any case. There are, it seems, multiple endbringers attacking simultaneously. It is not clear to me which I should strike at first, so I decide to comply with my human-origin instincts and <em>go with the flow.<em> As we descend on New Delhi, I contemplate that fighting and killing the newer endbringer will take a certain amount of time, since it can teleport freely. Based on the limited damage I can inflict on it while simultaneously obeying the order to help people, and the flightspeed of my golden form which is known to humanity at large, it will take approximately one hundred and forty four years to kill it.

I simulate attention to the speech Taylor is giving my human form, while I contemplate the total time it will take to kill off the other 19 or twenty. A pressing question, as nearly all of them are either active or nearing deployment.


End file.
